My mom never liked my wife. On my wedding, she cried: “Son, she’s not the one for you!” I said, “One day, you’ll love her too!” She nodded. 2 years later, mom di:ed.
I went to empty her house.
I froze when I looked under her bed.
She had been keeping my wife’s childhood photo album — the same one we thought was lost in a flood years ago. It was wrapped in plastic, carefully preserved. On top of it was a notebook, worn at the edges. I flipped it open.
The first page read:
“For my son — and the woman he loves. I’m trying to understand her. Day by day.”
Each entry was dated. Each one was a reflection. Some were critical at first — about my wife’s quiet nature, how she didn’t call enough, or how she folded towels differently.
But over time, the tone changed.
“She brought soup when I was sick. Stayed silent, but her silence wasn’t cold — it was respectful.”
“She laughs quietly, like she’s hiding joy — but it’s beautiful.”
“She loves my son. Truly. That’s all I ever wanted for him.”
The last entry, dated two weeks before Mom passed, simply said:
“She’s not the one I imagined for you.
But she’s the one I’d have chosen — if I’d had your heart.”
I sat on the floor, eyes wet, holding onto those pages like they were her hands.
And when I walked back through the front door of that quiet house, I wasn’t just carrying boxes.
I was carrying peace.